


Palace/Curse

by kingthezeke



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (kind of?), Bets & Wagers, Breathplay, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Day At The Beach, Dirty Talk, Drunk Dancing, Drunk Sex, Fluff, Lingerie, M/M, Netflix and Chill, Power Bottom, Praise Kink, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingthezeke/pseuds/kingthezeke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically a collection of short stories of Ham & GW. Lots of fluff, lots of porn.<br/>Tags will be updated as needed. This takes place during MVNB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“April is the most underappreciated month of the year,” Alexander’s pulling petals off of a daisy. “There’s this song by Prince that I like…  Ooh, we should get married. Let’s get carried away.”

George wakes with a start. He couldn’t breathe for a second. Marriage? _Shit_. Whatever his subconscious is trying to convince him to do, now is not the time. His eyes scan the room, adjusting to the darkness. Alexander stirs next to him, arms tightening around George’s waist with a snore. They’re both still in their _Mount Vernon_ uniforms. Vulcan is snuggled at the foot of the bed, protectively. George sighs. His head is killing him. Sinuses. Rubbing his eyes, he slips out of Alexander’s grip and wanders into the bathroom.

His boy must be exhausted; last night was hectic. Martha hosted some Irish drinking thing at the club last night for St. Patrick’s Day—he swears, that woman will find any reason to get people drunk. It’s among her skill set—and left George in charge. Except, George didn’t _know_ he was in charge. So everything was unsupervised, but everyone thought someone else was watching. The bystander effect, Alexander had told him. He’d read something about that in his psychology textbook.

He turns on the faucet, breathing through his mouth. His nose is stuffy and his throat is sore. “ _Jesus fucking Christ_ ,” he mumbles, pinching his nose bridge. He searches the medicine cabinet for his sinus relief stuff, but finds it isn’t there, so he searches around the bathroom. He finds the empty cartridge in the trashcan at last. He swears to himself, looking around for a temporary relief. Nothing. Maybe Martha can fix him tea, or something. He checks the clock—3:24am. Which means he and Alexander only got home fifteen minutes ago, and collapsed on the bed together.

He stands there for a moment, gazing back at Alexander, Vulcan lifting his head beatifically. His body has searched to compensate for the absent warmth, which had been George, amongst the pillows, tossing and turning now and again. He’s got one arm flung up over his eyes, shirt ridden up at his navel. His shoes are still on, so George removes them for him gently, placing them beside the bed, careful not to wake Alexander. Then he kisses his boy’s temple carefully, tenderly, and gets up. Vulcan hops off the bed, follows him down the hall.

George wanders downstairs and finds Martha holding a small cat in her arms delicately. At first, he’s inclined to turn around and go back upstairs, but then he finds himself wondering _where did you get a cat at 3am_? He wonders, vaguely, if he’s still asleep. She looks up at him grinning.

And surprisingly, she isn’t drunk. “When the Marquis gave him to me, he told me he was in heat almost 24/7—I don’t know if he was referring to the kitten or himself, now that I think about it. But, anyway, I named him Hamilton! I thought it was appropriate.”

George sneers. “Creative.”

“I like to be accurate.”

He doesn’t even think to object to keep a cat with so many dogs in the house. “Can you make me something for my sinuses?” He’d like to go back upstairs and curl up against his sweet boy, but if he wakes up _one more time_ because of these damn sinuses, he isn’t sure what he’s going to do.

“You don’t have any saline left?” She puts Hamilton down in a basket, where he starts crying as George’s dogs huddle around him curiously.

He follows her into the kitchen, dragging his feet on the cool wood floors. She begins to prepare water in her favorite Glossy Metal Red Kettle (that’s what she’d named it), leaning on the kitchen island idly. Then, without warning, she asks, “So? How’s Alex?”

“Sleeping.” He rubs his face sluggishly. “I’d like to be, too.”

She smiles with pity. “I know. But being a grump won’t make the water boil faster.”

“Alright.” George isn’t much of a talker when he first wakes up.

“You two have been dating for a while now,” she mumbles. “Just going through the motions together.” It’s a statement.

“Mhm,” George grabs his mug and places it on the counter between them.

“Do you love him?”

He freezes. “What?” Maybe Alexander put her up to this? No, he wouldn’t do that. He fixes his eyes on hers, but she’s not taunting or teasing. Her head is cocked in genuine interest. She’s waiting. “I guess the thought has crossed my mind a few times. Don’t want to rush it, though.”

“A year isn’t rushing it, George.”

“I may have said it when I was drunk one night,” he mumbles. “But I was half asleep.”

She smiles. “Have you ever just told him you loved him? Like, just flat out?”

His eyes narrow. “Why the sudden interest?”

“George, come now,” the kettle whistles, and she quickly removes it from the stand.

He sighs in easy defeat. Martha remains good-natured. “No. Should I?”

“If you think it’s right.”

He does, but he wants to wait. He isn’t sure how Alexander feels. He doesn’t want to pressure him, he doesn’t want to get rejected. He also doesn’t even really know if they’re dating. Are they dating? That’s a strange question—a question he’s never considered. They fuck, sure, but Alexander is really the only person George ever thinks about without having to think about it. And he’s really glad they met. And he would do literally anything for that boy. And he would ache mournfully if he lost him. And he smiles when he think about him. And accepts his flaws and wants to make his boy feel safe—would do whatever it takes to see those eyes and those lips and those hands and those hips. “Jesus Christ.” His fingertips massage his closed, tired eyes. He considers it. “I want to.”

“Then do it.”

George has suffered almost every disease in the book. He’s had illnesses all throughout his childhood, and now he hardly gets sick, save for the frequent migraines. But _this_ —this always gets him. Love and sinuses. “I’m going to pick up some more of that stuff from the pharmacy today,” George tells her as she fills a mug with the boiling water, stirring in some other stuff George couldn’t care for. “Thank you,” he murmurs, sipping it. He feels the burn in the back of his nose and sighs with relief. He gives her a short glance, then murmurs, “Appreciate the time your nose isn’t stuffed up. There are dark times on the horizon.” And with that, he shuffles back toward the staircase.

When he makes it to the top, he finds his way back to the bedroom, which is almost pitch black, save for the stream of light pouring in when George opens the door. George loves the dark. He sees Alexander sit up, blinking tired, confused eyes at him as George closes the door behind him, stopping to sip his tea, and shuffle back to the bed. He sets the tea on the night stand, finding that whatever it is Martha made, cleared his airways in a matter of moments. He takes a huge deep breath, lifting the comforter and slipping back under it, Alexander snuggling into his side again.

He takes Martha’s advice, even with the lingering suspicion that Alexander put her up to it. He gives him the benefit of the doubt. “Alexander.”

“George,” he responds teasingly. They aren’t looking at each other, they couldn’t see each other if they wanted to.

“I love you.”

A beat. Then, there’s something wet on his chin, and Alexander giggles, “I was trying to kiss you,” he says in explanation. “I love you, too.”

George laughs, but also feels to kiss his Alexander, but the impossible lack of light makes it difficult, missing his lips, and they laugh together, until he finally gets one, right on the corner or Alexander’s mouth. He shifts to kiss him properly. They melt together, holding each other inescapably close. It feels good to finally say it. So he lets Alexander nuzzle into his neck and fall asleep there. There’ll be time for romance later, he thinks. There’ll be time to talk about marriage later, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which George asks Alexander if he'd like to take charge for the night.

He considers it over his drink, with a knowing glance from Washington. His fingertips dance over the rim of his glass, his tongue gliding over his bottom lip. He grins as he stands. He still isn’t much taller than the man, even with Washington sitting down. “Fine. I’ll entertain that thought. But we’re gonna have to have _rules_. Okay?”

“Whatever you say,” Washington mutters, starting to shed his suit jacket, loosening his tie. He pauses, considers what he’s proposed, then a smirk appears and he’s shrugging his jacket off again. He rises to his feet, but Alexander stops him with a gentle shove to the chest, having him fall back into the armchair.

“Ah-ah-ah. _Down_.” His tone is teasing, he raises an eyebrow, bites his lip. “I’m riding you tonight. No touching me or yourself, till I say so.”

Washington complies more than eagerly, letting his legs fall open as he relaxes back into his chair. Alexander smirks, stepping back, studying the way his man lusts after him, austere eyes following him. Pretty hot. Washington’s dark brows are furrowed with concentration (or frustration, he can’t tell), so Alexander strips out of his waistcoat and dress shirt. He turns as he slides his pants down his thighs, bends at the waist, presenting his ass as prettily as he can. He’s in his delicious black lace panties, which earns a sharp gasp from Washington, who bites his lips to disguise a grin. Alexander turns to him and straddles his hips, rolling down onto him teasingly, folding his knees on either side of Washington’s muscular thighs.

“Alright. Grab my ass, big guy.”

Immediately, Washington’s hands are grabbing for his ass, one hand locked on each cheek, squeezing and kneading roughly as Alexander continues to grind down on Washington’s hardening cock. He changes up the tempos, speeding up, listening to his man’s breathy gasps; slowing down, listening to the rumbling in his throat. “I want you to spoil me tonight,” Alexander purrs by his ear, and Washington’s hips snap upward at that, and their moan, in unison, is similar in pitch. “You like my panties?”

“Fuck,” Washington grits out, tossing his head back and rolling his hips up into Alexander’s. His grip on his boy’s ass tightens. “ _Yes_ , baby girl.”

“Thought you might,” he breathes, working Washington out of his dress shirt. He only opens it, leaves the tie on. He’ll use it as a leash later, he decides. He’s groping Washington’s belt buckle with nimble fingers, bouncing up and down now with the force of a train wreck in his man’s ruthless hips. So he lifts himself up and turns around.

Washington sits in dazed confusion as Alexander makes his way back to the bed and glances over his shoulder. “Come here,” beckons him over with the tilt of his head, sitting at the edge of the bed. Washington is over in an instant, lowering to his knees in front of Alexander, dropping kisses on his thighs, strong hands running up his legs with his palms cradling Alexander’s calves. Alexander sighs shakily as Washington nears his crotch, shuddering at how obscenely Alexander’s hard-on flexes the delicate fabric. Seeing (and loving) the way Washington reacts to his panties, he murmurs, “You can have ‘em _if_ ,” and Washington’s eyes raise to meet his. “You can get them off with your teeth.”

It’s a challenge Washington is obviously not going to back down from. He smiles, but it doesn’t last long as he slides his hands up his boy’s thighs, hooking his legs around his neck as he lays wet kisses on Alexander’s balls. This earns tightened legs pulling him inescapably closer and Washington kisses up the underside of his cock. Alexander rolls his hips into his mouth, laying back with a small moan. Washington does, eventually, get the panties up Alexander’s thighs without ripping them. And then he gets impatient, so he slips them off with his thumbs, teasingly. His mouth goes back to Alexander’s waiting cock, and he fits it into his mouth in a smooth motion, and his Alexander arches his back against the comforter.

Taking the tie in his hands, he pulls Washington up, sits him on the bed nicely. His shirt is still hanging open, pants still buckled, cock straining against them with no shame. With a sideways glace to his forgotten panties, Alexander moves to lean over Washington, unbuckles his slacks, and pulls out the heavy weight. He slaps it against his lips a few times, emitting a satisfied groan from his man, with a huff of swears floating up there in that hazy world of euphoria. Alexander smirks. His tongue takes teasing strokes, finally sinking down onto his head, and he’s sure the whole hotel can hear Washington’s groan of relief. He’s never been this loud before, Alexander muses. (They’ve started skipping the condom, after both having been tested.)

He doesn’t give him much friction, though, because now Alexander’s leading Washington up to sit against the headboard, propping his man up so he can perform for him. Alexander is cocky, bratty, and loudmouthed. And Washington has often said that perhaps that’s what gets him. He smirks over his shoulder at him, wetting his own fingers with lube. “No touching yourself,” he reminds him, and moves to prepare himself in front of Washington, who has now understood what that would entail. His shoulders slump briefly in disappointment.

Alexander would love those brilliant, thick fingers inside of him, but part of getting what he wants means denying Washington every ounce of self-gratification. So he works one finger into himself, and he hears Washington become very quiet as he watches him. Alexander peaks over his shoulder to make sure the damn fool isn’t cheating, but instead, he finds Washington’s pupils full blown in the dim lamp light, watching with an intense greed that has never made Alexander feel smaller. And suddenly, he wants to impress his man, to please him, to have Washington think of no one but him, to want him to want him. So he adds his second finger, sways his hips as he drives his fingers deeper, gasping and calling Washington’s name into the sheets. At the third, his wrist is cramping up, but he feels so good and his fingers are brushing at his prostate, and he’s fucking himself into the sheets, but his hips are still in the air, so he removes his hand, moves to Washington’s lap.

“I need that big dick,” he giggles breathlessly, “Give it to me, old man.”

Caught off-guard, Washington’s eyes widen for a second before his laughter seems to burst from his lungs, and he scoops his boy closer by the waist. “You’ve got quite a mouth,” he mumbles in between kisses. Meanwhile, Alexander’s hand slips down between them, gives Washington a few light strokes, and then proceeds to coat him in lube generously. “Alright, come on, I’ve been waiting long enough,” the man grumbles.

Alexander slides down slowly, carefully, hissing. It’s a slow start—always is—because it seems no matter how long, or hard, or deep this guy fucks him, he’s tight as a bitch every time they fuck again. It’s both a blessing and a curse, he concludes. He refrains from gaping in the beginning, but just the press of Washington’s head against him is enough to make him come. Washington moves to grip his waist, but Alexander swats his hands away and yanks at the necktie. “Don’t think you wanna do that, baby,” he whispers against his ear. “Might make you wait longer.”

Washington must have a thing for power bottoms, Alexander guesses, judging by the way he smirks and sits back. Normally, Alexander gives it up for his old man, lets him have him anyway he wants him. But this is new. And it was Washington’s idea.

He slides back up once he’s settled against Washington’s groin, and begins, very slowly, to pick up the pace. “ _Shit_ ,” he mumbles, balancing himself on Washington’s shoulders. “Goddamn, man.”

“How am I supposed to—?”

“Let me handle that. Sit back.”

 “Alright,” Washington mumbles, catching his lips in a kiss.

Another giggle. He picks himself up, drops himself down, and the angle is searing, his blood is thumping in his ears. He’s still not letting Washington touch him, and he realizes this, so he drags Washington’s hand to drape over his dick, and immediately, he’s stroking him off in time with Alexander’s desperate bouncing.  He’s got his head thrown back, chanting _fuckfuckfuckfuckGeorgeshitfuckohGod_ , and his moans become squeaks. He can barely hear Washington say something ridiculously hot and cackle-worthy about ‘bouncing on that fat dick’ before he’s breathing, “God, daddy, I’m—!”

And before he can finish that thought, George sits up, pushing him onto his back, driving his hips deeper, faster, capturing Alexander’s gaping mouth in a sweet kiss, right hand jacking his boy off, left hand twisted into his hair, and that sexy voice murmuring right against his cheek, “Come for me, Alexander.” And he does, with his fist wrapped tightly in Washington’s navy blue necktie. And his man fucks him through it recklessly, leaving him breathless, tears streaming down his face in absolute bliss. He hardly registers that Washington spends in him with a strained groan.

And so they collapse on the bed together, chests heaving, fingers intertwined.

“We should do that more often,” Alexander mumbles sleepily. And Washington mutters something in agreement, pulling the blankets up to their chins.

"I still get the panties, right?" Washington asks suddenly.

"Yes," he laughs, slapping him gently on the arm. "Now spoon me and go to sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander bets Wash he can't pick up young men.  
> Their bet has some pretty sweet outcomes. Part 1

“No, you got _lucky_ with me,” Alexander mumbles with a smirk, sipping his drink. It’s insanely hot outside for him to be drinking hot chocolate this way, but he loves how Washington prepares it all special for him. He rolls his sleeves up at the elbow, ties an apron on, performs for Alexander like a barista.  It’s sexy, in a strange way. But now Washington is finished, leaning over the counter on his phone, debating passively about his sex life with Alexander, or more particularly, his sex life with men of Alexander’s age group. “What started between us had nothing to do with your charm or smarts or anything, Wash. _I_ thought you would be a good fuck, which is why _I_ gave it up.”

Washington raises an eyebrow.  “Which would accentuate my point. I _could_ pick up young men if I wanted to.”

Alexander stops, thoroughly and unabashedly amused. “You honestly think you’ve got game, old man?”

“I just turned 44.” Washington glances up from his phone, but there’s a light tone to his voice. “And yes, I do. I get passes from men younger than you—not that I would care to act on them.”

Alexander snorts a laugh, tossing his head back. It’s obviously exaggerated, but he grins good-naturedly. “Alright. Wanna bet on that?”

“What are we betting on, exactly?” It’s careful.

The grin is more mischievous now. “We’re gonna see if you can pick up college boys at the bar.”

Washington stands, pockets his phone. The apron is a nice addition to his tough man, Alexander muses. It’s Martha’s—says _Quiche the Cook_. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Positive. Nothing sweeter than proving people wrong, handsome.”

He watches Washington consider it, then says, “Well, something has to be at stake.”

“You mean your dignity.” Alexander sips his hot chocolate, and Washington chuckles.

“What are we betting for?”

Alexander sips his hot chocolate again. It’s just the way he likes it. He swivels on the stool, then says, “If you can get a kid’s number by the end of the night, I’ll let you take me shopping for lingerie.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Washington smirks. “What if you win?”

Alexander eyes him with the apron, looks away with pursed lips, sips his drink, and then smiles. “You have to cook my favourite meal in nothing but that apron. Appetizers, dessert, nice wine, candles. The works.”

Washington looks down at the apron. He considers the whole of it, and finally says, “Baby, I can’t cook.”

Alexander smiles. “You’d better learn, because you are not winning this bet.”

* * *

They’ve ventured out to _Maquillage_ , managing to avoid the baron, to refrain from drawing attention to themselves. _Maquillage_ is one of the most acclaimed nightclubs in DC amongst the college kids and young adults. It just doesn’t top the Washingtons’ _Mount Vernon_. Alexander has been to many gay bars before, and most of them have been relatively chill, even with the DJs and dancefloors. _Maquillage_ is not really anything remotely related to ‘chill.’ It’s basically just a rave with black lights and glow sticks, body paint, and neon lights, which Washington finds himself despising. Upon discussing it with Alexander, he ultimately floats off to the bar. Alexander is sitting back at one of the tables, watching whatever situation he may encounter from afar. He can’t hear anything going on with Washington, but he watches some guy plop down next to his man after five minutes of sitting alone on his phone. He’s cute, from a distance. Short blond hair, full features. Alexander doesn’t stare too hard. That would be weird.

From the looks of it, they’re flirting, and though the bass of the music is giving Alexander a head-splitting headache, he smiles at the potential outcome. Of his man shamelessly spoiling him in _Victoria’s Secret_. Washington leans in to speak by the boy’s ear, a classic, seductive move. Alexander shouldn’t have underestimated his old man. The boy smiles, swats his arm, laughs uproariously. And they order drinks. Washington flashes him a discreet smirk over his shoulder, and Alexander orders his own drink to keep himself company. Looks like he’s going to be here for a while.

The boy and Washington chat for a few more minutes. He keeps his hand on Washington’s bicep for a moment, pulls his hand away with a delighted and dramatic hand splayed over his heart. And then, Washington grins, flexing his arms generously, and the boy covers his face in the darkness, in what Alexander detects might be a blush. Something like jealousy flares up in Alexander’s chest. He’d known Washington was going to win this bet the moment he proposed it—which was why he’d made it so he would enjoy himself at either outcome. His George Washington is a handsome man, and he’d be damned if he ends up serving him a five course meal in a skimpy apron, which Martha would probably never wear again.

They go on for another 10 minutes like that, whispering back and forth in each other’s ears, laughing, ordering more drinks. Alexander can see from his seat that Washington is only drinking club soda. Classic George. At this point, Alexander begins checking his phone, waiting for some sign that they can leave. Wants to remind Washington of who he belongs to—whose ass he comes home to.

After the fourth or fifth round, the guy gets grabby. He’s leaning all over his man, purring, flirting, almost groping him. Washington pries him off with a polite hand, calls a taxi to have him sent home. Can’t get a guy shitfaced and not give him complementary aftercare. George Washington is a Southern GentlemanTM.

 

> _Are we done here? I know you’re not any more comfortable with this than I am. GW_
> 
> _tappin out already are we? AH_
> 
> _Ha ha. I’ve won the bet. Ready to get my prize :-) GW_

Alexander almost falls out of his seat. He claps a hand over his mouth to avoid cackling at the smiley face Washington has sent him, grinning inwardly at how refined his guy is. It’s endearing.

 

> _ready when you are, big guy <3 AH_

He watches Washington part with the boy, with the boy scribbling something down on a napkin, hands it to Washington with a huge grin. His phone number. Looks like Alexander will be getting new panties. He’s pleased with this. They talk for a moment longer.

They walk out to Nelson together, and the first thing Washington says is,

“He wanted to know why I drank club soda. Tried to get me drunk.”

Alexander smiles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Gotta admit. You’re pretty smooth.”

“So I do have game?” Washington nudges him, unlocking Nelson, who answers with a short chirp of acknowledgement. “You’ll admit that much?”

A shrug. “Let me see that phone number,” he squints at the chicken scratch. The guy’s name is Lucas, he’s got a Kentucky area code. Alexander slips into the passenger seat as Washington occupies the driver’s. “Fine. You win.”

“Nope. Say it. Say I have game.”

With an exaggerated groan, Alexander says, “You have _game_ , George Washington.”

“Say it like you mean it,” he jokes, preparing to venture to their predestined boutique.

Alexander restates, in a sultrier voice, “ _You have_ game _, George Washington_.”

He snickers. “Whatever.” They’re both looking forward to Alexander’s new clothing set, and what that would necessitate. Any time Alexander gets new lingerie, he likes to try it out on his man, see how it works him, how he reacts to peep spots and certain fabrics. He knows Washington likes lace, he likes thigh highs and garter belts. He _loves_ Louboutin. Alexander considers this.

And then he gets an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be lots of fun. Lingerie shopping, nice ass, and heavy dirty talk will ensue.  
> Make sure you are prepared for it.  
> "game recognize game, & you're looking kinda unfamiliar right now." -Riley Freeman & Also Alexander Hamilton
> 
> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of the lovely chapter 3.

They don’t normally do this—or, just haven’t done this a while, rather. It used to be a normal thing, for George to take his boy out and spoil him with knowing looks and subtle touches in the lingerie section. It’s sadly become a rarity, though, as George’s political career has advanced. But he doesn’t want to think about work right now. He’s observing a few body suits, just looking around, as Alexander leads the way. Neither of them are really into role playing, but George chuckles at a skimpy maid outfit and tries to envision his boy fitted into it. He doesn’t mind the heels displayed with it. His boy is small, but he’s got nice legs and a great ass. He tries to remember the last time they’ve been able to take it slow, instead of rushing through everything like they’ve been having to do these last few months. Quickies, hand jobs, blow jobs. Nothing passionate or relaxed. Nothing romantic. In fact, it’s been a while since they’ve really done anything together. With the weather warming up, _Mount Vernon_ is becoming busier and busier, and George’s work in Richmond isn’t getting much easier, either. He sighs.

“Washington,” he hears, and turns to find Alexander staring at him expectantly. “A maid outfit? What, are we going to get a nurse one, next?”

George smiles cagily, clapping a heavy hand on Alexander’s shoulder. He considers it briefly. “Just lost in thought. What were you looking at?”

“I like these stockings, big boy.” He’s gesturing to a pair on a mannequin. They come up mid-thigh, they’re black, sheer, and frilly on the hems. “Nice, right?”

A beat of silence, but his staring intensifies as he imagines what Alexander would look like in those, what with those strong legs and soft skin. Nice and pretty for him, with those hips and those eyes. “Indeed.”

Alexander runs his fingertips over the ankles of the mannequin experimentally. Then he smiles back at George over his shoulder. “Let’s move on. But these will be taken into consideration, yes?”

George walks with him without a word. He likes the first pair of stockings, and would not be opposed to just buying those, taking his boy home, and fucking him against the wall in them. That would do very nicely. He likes the color black on his Alexander. It’s sophisticated, sexy, classy. And even if his boy is a genius, pretentious, New York crass asshole, he looks damn good in corsets. And _that_ is what’s most important to remember.

Alexander has good taste in lingerie, it seems, because he ends up with a wide selection, and George, at his mercy, chooses _all_ of them. Stockings, corsets, panties, garter belts, you name it. A whole new wardrobe, and George plans on seeing all of it on his boy. But he would like to have Alexander seduce him, and tease him, lure him into bed, and flutter those gorgeous eyelashes and part those sweet lips for him. _Only_ for him. In that first pair of stockings. George keeps track of which bag they’re placed in, and where Alexander sets them in the car, and where he tosses them on the bed.

“I’m going to shower,” he calls, taking his hair down as he breezes into the bathroom.

George murmurs in acknowledgement, pouring himself a glass of scotch routinely. Alexander is more of a wine-person. He likes to try new wines, he has his favourites, which George likes to surprise him with from time to time. He hears the shower start, and he plops back into his desk chair with a heavy huff. Now is not the time for an evaluation on his life, but he does it, anyway, because he hasn’t done one in a while. Alexander—a cheeky, brilliant machine from the north with an issue with stepping on powerful peoples’ toes, and a shocking intellectual capability. He turns it over in his mind, and his brain helpfully supplies that he looks damn good in corsets. George sips his scotch. Alexander.

He kicks his shoes off, and drains his glass after another ten minutes of sitting on his phone, reading political news articles. Business back in Richmond doesn’t seem to be taking a break, even without him on the scene. It makes George nervous. Only a slight twinge of not being able to control situations. He knows Adams is holding down the fort, no matter how uncharismatic and disliked he may be.

Alexander steps out of the shower later in a fluffy robe, his wet hair pulled back in a messy bun. He graces George with a facetious smile—or maybe it’s a real smile? George can’t tell. Either way, he watches him slip the robe off of his shoulder, and rifle through the bags slowly. He admires a few pairs of panties, with scrutiny unmatched by anyone George has ever seen. Alexander is a connoisseur of lingerie.   

“Wear the first pair we looked at,” George murmurs. “The black stockings. I like those.”

Alexander looks up, as if he had forgotten George was there. A smile is present, his eyebrows raised. “I know. How many of those have you had already?” He’s referring to the empty glass in the hand that isn’t holding George’s phone.

“You trying to get me drunk?” George places the glass down with a clink, crossing his ankles as he stretches his legs out. “That was my first.”

Sifting through the aftermath of George’s spending spree is a ritual of Alexander’s. He takes actual time to study his selection with careful, acute force. It’s so Alexander Hamilton of him, George thinks. To make decisions before he actually, _legitimately_ considers the ramifications of his actions and to seriously contemplate his decisions _after_ the damage has already been done.

“Not trying to get you drunk, handsome,” Alexander answers absently. “Just make sure you’re still able to get it up by the time I’m ready for you, yea?”

“I was planning on a little buzz,” he confesses with something vaguely resembling a pout. He’d like to unwind tonight.

“Don’t get _drunk_ ,” Alexander says again. “Now get out. No touching yourself.”

George complies, standing to gather his things. He takes his scotch and his phone with him, sauntering off down the hall to relax in his study while Alexander primps and pampers himself for George, the way he knows he does. He’ll put on those stockings and panties, and open himself up, and tie his hair back (or maybe he’ll wear it down and toss his head every so often to get his hair out of his face when he’s on top of George. George smiles at the thought.) He flops back onto his couch, props his feet up on the opposite arm. His skin prickles in anticipation. Just down the hall, his boy is probably already inspecting those stockings and panties, checking his ass in the mirror, composing himself nicely, like a good boy.

George is stiff as a board by the time Alexander calls him back, ten minutes later. He’s been impatiently waiting, working himself up, but obeying Alexander in their ‘no touching’ policy. However, he’s heard that faint “ _Daddy_ ,” drifting from the bedroom, and knows that’s his cue. Aside from the few other glasses of scotch he’s downed, he’s clear headed and more than ready. He practically sprints down the hallway, but catches himself, and regains his dignity. He pushes the door open with feather-light fingertips, peaks in to find his boy draped over the bed on his stomach, legs proudly and gently crossed in the air, in all their sheer, stocking clad glory. He’s wearing glossy Louboutins, and matching panties. George’s jaw drops.

Fuck _dignity_. This boy just has no idea what he does to him.

He stands for an idle moment, gaping at his boy in the dim light, all laid out for him. He takes him in, and Alexander, he decides, is really just a Furini painting. George drops his suit jacket on his chair, loosens his tie, and approaches the bed carefully. His boy looks over his shoulder at George seductively, a hint of a smile in those stunning eyes. He sits up, in a smooth motion, crawling up to George’s crotch, but raises an eyebrow at the preexisting hard on. He gropes it through his slacks, first, and then smiles up at George, kissing it lightly though the fabric. He flutters his eyelashes as George unbuckles his belt, running a hand through Alexander’s hair. It’s dry now, soft, and warm. He’s worn it down this time.

“Baby girl, you look so good for me,” he murmurs down to Alexander affectionately, stroking his cheek. Those goddamn thigh highs.

Alexander flushes at the compliment, grinning up at George, while also scrambling to get his fly undone. “You know,” he begins, “When you were flirting with that kid at the bar, I had the right mind to demand you to fuck me right there. Show you who you belong to,” he breathes, successfully getting George’s cock to spring free. “Whose _ass_ you own.”

George’s laugh is raspy, and he asks, “Why didn’t you?”

He wiggles his ass to demonstrate the result of the bet as his answer, winking up at George, before kissing at his cock lovingly. They’re simple, sweet kisses, like he’s worshiping the saltiness that beads as pre-cum, sliding down the shaft. He moans around his wet kisses, pressing them with such a sincerity, George can’t tear his eyes away from the scene. His boy, in those _goddamn_ stockings, kissing at his cock like he’s won an award. Then his nimble tongue gets involved, swirling around the head, teasing the slit, and George groans.

It goes from there, to deep throating, which George isn’t entirely prepared for. Alexander takes him in as much as he can fit, without gagging or choking. George’s pants are now shucked down mid-thigh as he fucks his boy’s mouth (per Alexander’s urgent request.) He’s gasping, gripping the loosely waved hair, thrusting his hips in and out of Alexander’s waiting mouth, who’s on his hands and knees like a good boy. George will be sure to reward him soon.

“You’re such a good boy, just for me,” he manages through groans. “That’s it, baby, just—oh _fuck_ ,” his body racks as he comes and he’s panting as Alexander swallows around him. He lets go of his boy’s hair, staggering backwards. He stops, staring at his boy—at that gorgeous view, mouth gaping, eyes dark with want, shoulders trembling, hair falling around his face. He’s breathless, his whole body racking with every breath. He smiles, though, and moves so that he’s sitting up straight, head tilted.

“You okay?” he’s inquiring. His voice is rasped, hoarse. George smiles, and feels that he’s slicked with sweat. Alexander continues, “I think it’s kinda hot when you bang me in your suits, by the way. When I see you wearing them again, I high-five myself because I _tapped_ that.”

“And you’re a lot more tolerable when your mouth is full,” George replies, kicking his pants off the rest of the way, and discarding his shirt and boxers. “Life’s unfair.”

“You speak with accuracy,” Alexander murmurs, his voice lilting as George scoots him toward the center of the bed, to get between his thighs, hovering over him. “I already prepared myself. I know you hate the wait,”

“But I enjoy a good show,” George purrs, kissing Alexander’s calf muscle, who chuckles at the way George seems to linger on the fabric, studying the shadows of it against his boy’s tanned skin. Alexander allows him his moment of ghosting his lips up his leg, kissing his ankle at the strap of the shoes. “Want me to take these off?”

“ _God_ , yes, they’re killing me. I don’t see how Martha does it for so long,” and he muses about how she even walks on grates in heels. He concludes that she is some heavenly being, just as he initially suspected. They fumble with undoing the heel’s straps for a moment, and when they’re successful, they’re discarded with a heavy sigh of relief from Alexander, who stretches his toes.

“Can you even walk in them?” George asks, positioning his boy on his back, skimming his fingers over his shins.

“I can, I’ve been practicing,” comes the response. “I’ll walk around in them for you one day.”

“We’ll have to get you that maid outfit, then,” George laughs, and drops a kiss onto his boy’s lips. They share the joke for a moment, and Alexander’s arms are locked around George, and George is pressing the head of his cock to Alexander’s rim, testing, teasing. They never get it like this, anymore. To relax, slow down, share kisses, to share _bad jokes_. He smiles. Presses slowly, and Alexander moans underneath him.

It’s a deliberate teasing, but George still eases in, to save Alexander unnecessary discomfort. He presses sweet kisses to his neck as his boy breathes it out, trying to relax with the pressure and the stretching. George is about halfway in at this point, so he slows down, intertwining their fingers promisingly. Once he makes it in, he stops to let Alexander adjust. He feels his legs wrap around his waist, holding him hostage.

He meets Alexander’s eyes, which are shining in the subdued light, with tears and—love? George doesn’t know, decides not to overthink the situation, kisses him on the lips. Alexander smiles, whispers, “Move, already, old man. Don’t die on top of me.”

George snickers, rolls his hips experimentally, letting Alexander set the speed through whines, hisses, demands for more, faster, harder. None of which George ignores. Now, George is not a music-man. But this rhythm, Alexander’s periodic whimpers, moans, and squeaks are George’s favourite song. He spoils him, lets his boy have it anyway he wants it, kissing his neck if he asks, stroking him off as in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck me into this mattress, Daddy, mess me up,” he’s whispering furiously against George’s ear. “Make me come for you, make me yours.”

George’s hips snap at an unpredicted angled thrust, and Alexander screams, arching his back against the bed. George’s thighs and forearms are burning, but he doesn’t notice, just continues plowing his boy, the way the both need it, crave it. He keeps fucking at that angle that almost made his boy black out at, and he’s getting the response he’d been after, panting and crying and begging.

George hikes one of his boy’s legs over his shoulder to get in deeper, driving as hard and fast as he can, as Alexander holds his jaw in his hands. He’s on the verge of his orgasm, but he wants to make sure Alexander comes before he does—generosity or pride, he doesn’t know. But his boy, as if right on cue, squeals,

“I’m— _god_ , I’m coming! Don’t stop, don’t st—please, don’t stop, Daddy!” He’s begging, with no regard to who could overhear him. It only feeds George’s ego—he knows he’s got a big dick. But _this_ loudmouthed prick, coming undone like this? And Alexander comes, all over himself, eyes rolling, nails breaking skin on George’s shoulder blades, who comes at the last moment. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders if he’s got some sort of kink for that, too. But, for right now, he’s buried to the hilt in his boy’s fine ass, the stockings teared, and his boy is still grabbing to pull him closer, nails raking up and down his shoulders as he comes with a strained groan.

With the final rock of the hips, George pulls out, sighing as Alexander collapses. They’re panting in unison, but George is still sitting up, and Alexander lays for a moment. Then, he sits up, kisses George on the lips sweetly. George is surprised to see the boy hasn’t flagged.

He turns over, presenting his ass to his man, swaying it, as semen and lube drip down his thighs. He presses his chest to the mattress, looking over his shoulder at George expectantly, and he finally breathes, “One more round?”

And, hell. How can George say no to this wonderfully presented boy of his? So, he gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up.  
> you know where I'm at.
> 
> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing in the sand in bare feet, chicken fights, and volleyball.

~~~~

“Did you used to do this in the 50’s?” Alexander snickers, clutching the pile of folded towels to his chest. He just blew George in the hotel, so he’s extra cocky today. No pun intended. “Just drive to the beach and go to sock hops and stuff?”

George rolls his eyes good-naturedly “First of all, young man, I was born in ’72.” He knows Alexander is aware of this. “And second, personally, I’ve never liked the beach. Or, at least not the ones in Virginia. Three, I’ve never been to a sock hop.”

“You don’t like the beach?” Alexander laughs. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m not.”

Today is Martha’s birthday, and she decided to spend it in the Florida Keys, hosting a party on the beach. She’d rented it out for the entire day, setting up decorations and places for shade, and drinking areas, the whole nine yards. She’s turning 46, but it’ll be the first time she’s celebrated in years. She’d left George in charge of transportation. He’d also advised her that combining alcohol with open water was not a very good idea, but she’d advised him, in turn, to hire lifeguards for that exact reason. So he did.

Martha has exquisite taste, it seems. She’s in a bright white sundress, dreads tied back with white flowers weaved into them. She grins when she sees George and Alexander step out of the rental jeep. She’s in the middle of getting help stringing lanterns from the palm trees, crisscrossing all over the island, toward the shade in the trees. It’s noon when the party is ready. Tables and chairs are set up, coolers in the shade are present, towels and buffet tables are out. George has done his share of work, and Alexander has mostly been drinking cold beers and eating chips. About half an hour later, their party guests begin to arrive from the hotels. The Washingtons agreed to pay for lodging for Hercules, John, Alexander, and Lafayette if they handled their own transportation. The Schuylers generally have no problem with money. It was a good deal, George thinks. The rest of the guests were more than happy to venture out to the Florida Keys during such great weather.

The boys waste no time, charging the water when they arrive. Alexander attempts to drag George out with them, but George strongly declines. The water is a beautiful bright blue, as opposed to water on Virginia’s coast, which is really just a dark green. The sand here is fine and white as sugar, but in Virginia, it’s yellow and crunchy. It might actually be enjoyable here, George thinks. It’s clean, at least. He sighs, ignoring the boys’ screams and delighted shouts. The Schuylers arrive from their hotel, shortly thereafter in their sarongs and bathing suits, bringing birthday gifts and wine coolers. They take the time to rub on sunscreen, calling to the boys from the safety of the land that they’ll be in the water with them shortly.

Later, Martha sunbathes, while some other people that George doesn’t remember the names of are chatting in the sand or playing volleyball. Lafayette has brought the football out into the water, instructing at the top of his lungs in rapid fire French. He doesn’t actually know how to play football, George observes.

“I don’t speak French!” Hercules is yelling back, treading water, eyes locked on the football, which is now soaring through the air. The young adults are scrambling through the water, the girls squealing and giggling as the boys wrestle and make teams. Soon, they’re engaged in an intense chicken fight, laughing and splashing around.

George relaxes next to Martha in the sand. He prefers to sit back and watch, versus taking part in the action. He chuckles a bit whenever Alexander yells about rules, which he proceeds to break every now and then, himself. Martha has made George promise not to talk about work on her birthday, and has restricted his use of news articles, for that purpose. And he thinks maybe she was right to force him to relax. He can be so uptight sometimes. He rubs sunscreen on her back for her, as she’s asked, and she soon falls asleep. He decides now would be a good time to join the kids in their game.

By the time he’s reached them, Alexander has noticed he was coming, and throws John off of his shoulders.

“Washington!” Eliza beams from her perch on Angelica’s shoulders. “You know how to chicken fight?” They all seem impressed, but not surprised, that George’s body is very much muscular, if not subtly jacked. Alexander is obviously swollen with pride.

“I do,” he responds coolly, glancing at Alexander, who is trying not to look at his man’s pecs and how they gleam in the sunlight with the sheen of sweat forming like he’s some fucking vampire. “Would you like to be my partner?”

And from then on, Alexander is perched on George’s shoulders, in a headlock with Lafayette on Hercules’ shoulders, laughing hysterically as he tries to unbalance them. It’s the strangest fun George has ever had with other people in a while.

They all find out that Martha has arranged a scavenger hunt and volleyball tournaments, and a few other competitions George never though he’d have to compete in. The winner of the scavenger hunt wins their own bottle of some fancy vodka she’d picked up on her way to the party. She hands out the lists, explaining the rules at great length. Eliza wins that one, after managing to find and capture a butterfly in the forest behind the beach. No one else was really sure how to put it in the bags Martha supplied them with.

The volleyball tournaments are just a pain in the ass, but George refrains from admitting as much, for Martha’s sake. It’s shirts versus skins, and Martha is the referee, perched on the lifeguard’s chair. George is on skins, with Angelica, John, and Peggy. Shirts are Alexander, Lafayette, Hercules, and Eliza. George is a good sport, even though the skins lose miserably on each round. After six rematches, it’s settled that the shirts are the clear winners. They win leis and free drinks. Alexander gives his blue lei to George with a quick kiss on the lips, and George wears both for the rest of the night.

The next competition, as the sun is beginning to set, is a sandcastle building competition. The birthday girl is excited, but the liquor in her system slows her considerably. They pick teams, and Alexander and George quickly pair up, against the Marquis and Hercules, and Eliza with Peggy. John is DJing now, playing reggae, dancehall, and slow jams. “The goal,” Martha explains, bobbing to the music, “Is that your castle will be beautiful, but stable, and able to stand on its own. So, basically me, in my twenties. You’ll have one hour. And remember, you get _bonus_ points for decorations that you find in the water and on the island. You can’t use your own little trinkets to decorate your castles, either. No sabotage, _adults_.” She includes that line with eyes trained on Alexander. “Good luck!”

George doesn’t know how to build a sandcastle. He admits this to his partner.

“You mean you don’t know how to have _fun_!” Alexander retorts, gathering shovels and pails from the pile Martha gestured to. “Look, when I was growing up in the Caribbean, all me and my brother _did_ was build sandcastles. I know the secrets and the art of this, man.”

“Are you sure?” George hasn’t won a competition all day, but he’d like to give his own lei to Alexander, if he wins one. He steals a kiss on the lips, Alexander smiles in return, weaving their fingers together.

“I’m positive. I used to build _art_ ; trust me on this.” Alexander glances over his shoulder at Lafayette and Hercules, who are digging a large hole for some reason. “Okay, first, I need you to go get all of these buckets filled with water,” he hands George a stack of buckets. He smells like wine coolers and sunscreen. “I’m going to gather the sand.”

Within forty minutes, Alexander has done as promised, and sculpted some sort of dream duplex out of sand, while sipping from his stemless glass. He sends George on a mission to go hunting for ornaments while he continues to pat the dry sand with the water. George finds grasses and shells, a few colored pebbles, and short sticks. He gathers them, flings them into the bucket. He treads the water on the shore, collecting empty shells and starfish, with a quick inquiry regarding their health. Are starfish animals? And is it okay to take them out of the water? He’ll look it up later. Upon his return, Alexander is sprawled out on the sand, waiting patiently for George’s return. He’s on his belly, singing along to some song John is playing from the DJ booth. The setting sun casts orange and violet shadows on his love and George smiles as he sits next to him. George kisses him on the cheek.

“The castle looks wonderful, baby boy.”

Alexander grins. “I may be a little rusty, but _this_ is a winner.” He begins to rummage through George’s bucket of supplied ornaments. He invites the man to help him decorate, but advises him to be careful. It really is a nice sculpture. George doesn’t do much touching, afraid he’ll knock it down.

Moments later, they hear, “And time! Please step away from your castles, contenders!”

George gets to his feet first, helping a buzzed Alexander up. They walk over hand in hand to stand beside Martha as she inspects all three sculptures from afar. She hadn’t stuck around during the competition. She’d said she wanted to be surprised, so she reffed for a volleyball game that was taking place, then she napped, and then she danced. She approaches a lopsided volcanic structure, with a few blades of grass protruding from the center of it. There’s a smiley face carved on the side of it. The stick is somewhere around her feet.

“We call it Mount Marqules,” Hercules says from behind her proudly. Lafayette is grinning next to him, and Martha laughs. “This was inspired by the castle we _couldn’t_ build, so we just patted it all together instead, smoothed the sides. That smiley face was Marq’s idea.”

“It takes real artistic merit to build a volcano out of sand,” Alexander adds helpfully.

“ _Oui_ ,” the Marquis grins. “It was—how do you say?—no pieces of cake,”

Martha nods with her own grin, considering it. “Alright, I’ll take it.”

She moves on to the next one, which happens to be Peggy and Eliza’s. It’s a squashed mound of sand, surrounded by a squashed wall of sand. The girls are sitting next to it, laughing hysterically. There are remnants of a taller castle, before, and from Peggy’s knees to her stomach, she’s covered in sand. She’s teetering back and forth, holding her empty margarita glass, giggling, “I tripped, and fell. I crushed ours, I’m sorry!” Martha laughs, too, and Alexander joins in. The girls, and Alexander, are all drunk, giggling maniacally about Peggy squishing the castle accidentally. It’s about ten minutes before she declares George and Alexander the winners after a refill of wine for her and the boy. George’s lei is pink, and he drapes it around Alexander’s neck as he’d originally planned. He looks beautiful in it. The sun as set, so the lanterns above them are turned on and the torch lamps are lighted, and his boy looks so precious, there in the dim light, thick eyelashes framing sparkling eyes.

They have some sort of buffet, prepared by Martha and a few of the women from the hotel. It’s a lot of fruit and fish, but mostly sushi with freshly caught fish from that morning. George sticks to California rolls, stealing wasabi from Alexander’s plate as the latter is distracted with teaching the Marquis how to use chopsticks. “How do you do that with your fingers, _Jambon_?” he’s asking, and Alexander tries to adjust his fingers, to no avail. They get him a fork, after another six minutes of hopeless struggling.

“Did you have fun today?” George asks.

“I did. Today’s not over, though.” Alexander grins, and suddenly, John must be playing his song, because his eyes light up and he sets his wine glass down, and says, “Oh my god! No! Wash, you _have_ to dance to this with me, please.”

George doesn’t speak, but he smiles as an agreement. He likes to dance—nothing fancy, but just to enjoy the music, so he allows his boy to lead him to an unoccupied spot in the sand by the water. It’s an upbeat dancehall song, and all George really understands is “ _Dutty wine, my girl, dutty wine_ ” resonating through the speakers. He feels good. He’s a bit buzzed, himself, so he rolls his hips in the rhythm with Alexander’s. Martha and the Schuylers are all squealing with delight, running through the sand to dance along, holding hands, dancing on each other the way women do. Soon, Alexander’s enthusiasm translates to his ass grinding back against George’s hips as they sway to the music. George simply rocks with him while his boy grinds back. His dick responds too eagerly to the way Alexander boldly dances against him, and no one is paying attention to them, because all they’re all dancing, anyway.

George steals his moment and snakes his hands down to Alexander’s waist. Their bodies rock together and George’s lips skim Alexander’s neck. He feels him giggle, and then they’re facing each other, swaying to the beat. Alexander’s arms lock around George’s neck, and their dancing becomes more intimate, something that doesn’t really match the nature of the song, but George isn’t bothered because his boy is in his arms and John has a good taste in music. He’s sure he could learn to love the beach this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I hate the beaches in VA (I live like 3 hours from DC)  
> 2\. I don't know how to use chopsticks, either  
> 3\. The song they're dancing to is called "Dutty Wine" by Tony Matterhorn, I personally love that song  
> 4\. I should be uploading Chapter 7 for MNVB soon, fear not.  
> 5\. Drop prompts and ideas in my inbox on Tumblr!
> 
> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Per Anon's request, some majorly dirty-talking George.

“Come on, baby girl, grind back on it,” George growls, twisting his fist in his boy’s hair. This earns a hiss from Alexander and more friction on George’s dick through his pants and he groans. “Work for it. That’s it, be a good girl for me.”

Alexander whimpers, letting his head tip back to ease the sharp pain on his scalp. He keeps his hips slow and deliberate, grinding back teasingly. He’s sitting forward on George’s lap, hands balanced on his knees. “This how you like it, Daddy?” He peaks over his shoulder at George, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

The heavy curtains are closed, so the room is dim, but George can still make out the blush peppering his boy’s pretty face. He smacks his ass and pulls his hair back, with enough force so that Alexander’s back is pressed against George’s tight chest. “Fuck yea. Just like that, baby.” He rocks his hips into Alexander’s, who moans wantonly in turn. “Give me that fat fucking ass, you tease.” His lips are right by Alexander’s candied ears. He feels his boy’s frame shudder, and his grinding deepens onto George’s cock. He slaps the meat of the fine ass peaking from the garter straps and stockings, appreciating the shriek Alexander emits when he does.

“Do that again, sir, please.” His voice is weak, breathless.

Another crack of the hand, and Alexander’s falling forward, grinding back harder, dipping his back lower, presenting his ass higher, pleading. George appraises the perfect, red handprint left over from the last blow. The garter strap frames it nicely, stretching over his thighs and hips. He smirks. “You want this dick, baby boy?”

“Yes, I want it, I want it,” he breathes. It’s shuddered, desperate. “Please, Daddy, give it to me. I want it so bad.”

Another moment of teasing grinding. George watches him work, watches his boy _earn_ it. Perched on his lap like George is a fucking throne. He uses Alexander’s hair like a leash, yanking on it when he messes up, massages his scalp when he’s being a good boy. “Want it in your mouth, Princess?”

“Fuck yes, please!” He hears the trace of laughter in Alexander’s voice. Knows he wants George to smack his ass again, roughly. _Good girls do bad things to get spanked_ , he’d said one day. George remembers this, because of the teasing from then and right now.

So he smacks his ass so hard, it bounces, and his boy keens. “Watch your mouth, love.” His voice remains steady and cool, even as Alexander reels with a lusty moan. “Get down on your knees, then.”

Alexander scrambles off George’s lap without hesitation, sitting at his knees, blinking up at him with his huge eyes. His hands move to grope George’s cock through his pants, and he grins. He keeps his eyes on George’s, batting his eyelashes as he kisses through the fabric, soaking the shaft of his cock though his pants. George groans, but is unable to do anything but watch as his boy unbuckles his belt for him and wraps one hand around the base of his dick.

“ _God_ , baby boy,” George grits out as Alexander kisses the head, down the underside, and massages his balls with his tongue. It’s obscene, the way his boy moans; George’s hands are in tight fists. And then he’s taking all of George in, in a single, smooth motion, from tip to base. Then he lets back up, with a grin.

“You like me like this, sir? On my knees for you?” He punctuates the question with sliding George’s cock into his mouth again slowly, repeating the motion.

George doesn’t answer with words just yet. Instead, he forces his boy’s head down, the way he knows only Alexander can take it. He works him into a brutal rhythm, muttering how much of a slut his boy is for his cock, how good he feels, how good he looks on his knees for him. “You’re so good for me, sweetheart, taking my cock like a good girl. You like that, baby? You like it when I fuck your face?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Alexander answers immediately as he pulls George out of his mouth with a wet _pop_. And then, he sits back, opens his mouth with his tongue out, willing George to stand up and pull him forward to his hips and bury his cock into Alexander’s throat.

George stands after admiring his boy’s obedience for a moment. He flutters his eyelashes up at George as he towers over him, and from George’s perspective, this is absolute paradise. “Up.” It’s a simple command, and Alexander straightens his back, shuffles forward on his stocking-clad knees, runs his tongue up the underside of George’s cock, which is standing proudly up against his tight stomach. And when he slips it into his mouth, George rocks his hips slowly at first, but then it becomes harder thrusts and longer strokes, and then his boy shows off, moaning around him, digging his nails into George’s quads, staring up at him with those fucking _eyes_ of his. His hands are locked in his boy’s hair as he works. “Fuck, Alexander—you’re too much, baby girl—” His hips stutter, and his rhythm falters when he feels like he’s close, but he keeps it up because the slickness and the heat of his boy’s mouth is almost overwhelming.

At last, he comes with a harsh grunt, holding Alexander in place as his orgasm hits him like a sack of bricks. He releases his boy from his solid grip when he’s done, letting him relax after a moment’s panting and tense muscles are done passing. He flops back into the chair, and Alexander wipes his mouth with a grin. He crawls to George on his hands and knees, tucks him back into his pants, and lays with his cheek on George’s knee. George’s hand snakes into Alexander’s hair, and he tips his head back.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a moment.

“I am.” He shifts to look up at George, and George looks down at him, to find his face flushed, framed with dark, messy hair, with that wide grin and those sparkling eyes. “I know you needed to unwind. I’m more than happy to help.”

A chuckle. “Thank you, Princess.” And he relaxes into his armchair again, closing his eyes, stroking Alexander’s hair lovingly as he dozes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up on Tumblr with prompts & stuff.  
> also, George's love for Alexander's ass will never cease.  
> I don't think it ever could.
> 
> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

“Do not call me that.”

“What, ‘Georgie?’” His boy snickers, scooping his third spoon of ice cream into his bowl. “I like it, I think it’s cute.”

“I’m not cute,” George mutters, taking the rest of the carton, scooping some into his own bowl with some difficulty. Alexander notices.

“You _are_ cute.” It’s not up for discussion, because next, the boy’s heading back to the living room with his ice cream, singing some operetta at the top of his lungs. “Can we start the movie now? I’m sure the first ten minutes will be like—girls tripping over themselves, running through the forest in dresses for some reason, anyway.”

“It isn’t that kind of movie.” George puts the ice cream in the freezer again. “It’s a war movie.”

“On our date? How romantic.” He’s sliding around on the hardwood floors in his fuzzy socks, feeding Vulcan pepperonis off of the pizza they’d ordered.

“Don’t spoil him.” Is all George says, licking some ice cream off of his thumb. “See, that’s why he likes you. Because all you do is give him food.”

Alexander laughs, plopping down onto the sofa, waiting for George. “I think you’re just jealous because your dog loves me more than you.”

Now it’s George’s turn to laugh as Vulcan, predictably, follows Alexander to the couch, whining for more scraps. When his needs aren’t met, he hops up into Alexander’s lap, pleading with his heavy paws, licking his face. Alexander squirms, trying to shove him off, and George watches him struggle, amused at the sight. He’s laughing, turning this way and that, trying to pry the weight off of him, to no avail. After another moment of Alexander’s playful, face-licking suffering, George’s baritone fills the room.

“ _Vulcan_. Down.”

Immediately, the panting dog retreats, circling around George’s legs, as he watches Alexander sit up, wiping his face with his sleeves, laughing still. “I wish you called _my_ name like that.” He sips his wine and eats a scoop of ice cream, eyes suddenly widening, hands flailing empty air. “Wash, oh my—” He’s waving him over, beckoning George to try some. “This is so _good_!”

George sits promptly in front of Alexander, who is sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing him. He eats a spoonful that his boy feeds him, then takes a sip of the wine as instructed, and swallows. And then waits. “ _Goddamn_ ,” he mumbles, exchanging a bewildered look with Alexander, who is also nodding wide-eyed as he eats another spoonful of ice cream. George is not a dessert man. He doesn’t usually eat sweets or drink wine, but _this_ —“What kind of wine is that?” He inquires, suddenly. It’s cold, but sweet and tastes like strawberries and raspberries. He reads the bottle on the glass coffee table, and— _Verde Rosé_. Of course. Not only is Alexander the connoisseur of lingerie, but he also apparently happens to be an expert at improvising dessert.

Alexander sips it again with a shrug, then grins. He passes the glass back as George adjusts comfortably in front of him, passing the bowl back to him, after having taken another spoonful. The exchange goes back and forth like that for a while—with George taking sparing sips of wine, passing the glass back to Alexander, to get the bowl of strawberry ice cream.

“We’re gonna be _so_ drunk,” his boy whispers with a giggle, setting the empty bowl aside, kissing George on the forehead with cold, sweet lips. There’s already high color to his cheeks, and the way his brilliant eyes twinkle only heats up the fuzzy warmth in George’s chest.

So they decide to pop in the DVD—George opposed to Netflix. He still had his copy of _Saving Private Ryan_ on Blu-ray. Alexander had called him “old school” but George likes to think of it as classic. Alexander had said something about ‘Netflix and chilling’ but George didn’t think chilling would be appropriate in 40 degree weather. He’s already quite cold, as it is. “You’re going to love this, baby boy.” He hasn’t warned him of all it contains, but was honestly doesn’t think Alexander will stay awake the whole time, anyway. He was a bit surprised Alexander had never seen it before, though. They’ll have to re-watch it together one day, when they’re wide awake. He turns the lights off as the warning FBI thing pops up, then strolls back to the couch, plopping down as Alexander immediately snuggles into George’s chest, directing George’s hand to play in his hair. He sighs contently against his chest when the movie starts and thick fingers twirl into gleaming, raven locks.

“Don’t fall asleep,” George whispers. But even he has difficultly staying away with the steadily breathing, warm boy cuddled up to him, holding him close, squeezing him gently every now and again. And even as the squad gets to the outskirts of Ramelle, George finds himself falling asleep, cradling his love to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought we needed a lil fluff in there, somewhere. See, they can be romantic. It's not always just blowjobs and hair-pulling!  
> Anyway, I figure old man GW would not even understand what a Netflix and Chill was, so they improvised.  
> God bless his soul.
> 
> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

They giggle together, stumbling in through the foyer, supporting each other on wobbly, drunken frames. Or, George is doing most of the supporting, guiding a horny, impatient Alexander along, steering him through the hotel room, tipsy from their shared night out. Vacations in the private islands of the Philippines are George’s favorite to take with his boy. Especially when it means they’ll have nights like this. With Alexander teasing him at the bar downtown, and he’ll get to chase him home. Fuck him hard, spoil him rotten.

“Daddy, come on, hurry up,” Alexander slurs, whining, yanking him back onto the sofa. His eyes are half lidded and his fingers are scrambling for George’s already-tenting fly, while George is trying to find the lamp.

“Wait a minute, doll,” George mutters, finally clicking on a lamp, and shrugging his shirt off. He scoops Alexander up, bridal style, cradling him into a deep kiss. He likes to take his time, even if Alexander is rushing him. He walks him over to the bed, sets his boy down sweetly. Everything is a hazy, slow motion. Must be the liquor in his system. He kisses down Alexander’s bare neck. It’s sloppy and wet, but the way his boy moans and pulls him closer suggests that he shouldn’t stop, so he doesn’t. Their hips are grinding against each other’s, moaning into open mouthed kisses, hands scrambling, gripping, pleading.

“C’mon, Daddy, don’t you wanna fuck me?” It’s a restless growl against his ear, and George’s cock fills out more.

George’s hands skim down Alexander’s stomach, slip into his boxers. “What was that, baby?” he murmurs, lightly stroking his boy’s hardening dick. Alexander writhes under his touch, moaning through gritted teeth, gasping when George squeezes or ghosts his thumb over the head, or massages his balls idly. “Say it a little louder, if you can.”

“Fucking tease,” Alexander gasps, a grin gracing his flushed face. He wraps his legs around George’s waist, pulling him closer. “Come on my face, Daddy, I want it like a good girl.”

“Good girls get it in their ass,” George snickers, heeding Alexander’s sharp moan when he squeezes. He doesn’t talk much during drunken sex. “You want it on your face? Like Daddy’s little slut?”

“Yes, please,” he gasps, rocking his hips into George’s hand now, mouth frozen, gaping open, eyes watery and locked on George’s. Oh, those fucking _eyes_. His lips are red, kiss-swollen, and parted, but George lets his boy have his moment, fucking into his hand while he watches him hungrily. When his hips stutter, George moves his hands, to Alexander’s ass, and—he freezes when he feels hard plastic.

“ _Oh_.”

Alexander, in a haze of confusion stops, stares at George, but smiles when he realizes why he’s stopped. “Thought it would be a nice addition.” And it was, because now George is hesitating as to whether or not he wants to pull the butt plug out, with his hard on throbbing against his belly. It’s stubby, and black, and George grins a devious grin, remembering how his boy was grinding up on him while they were dancing and—

“ _Ohhhh_.” It all makes sense now. He experimentally tugs on it, not hard enough to pull it out, or cause any discomfort, but judging by the way Alexander hisses, it’s gotta be big. “You are a little slut, aren’t you?”

He grins, face flushed. “I take it you like it?” He bats his eyelashes. George’s erection twitches.

“Turn over.”

And he does, ass up for George, back low. George marvels at the way his ass stretches around the plug. He grips the end of it, twists it out slowly, with some moaning and commentary from his boy. He strokes his cock to get his blood flowing right, positions himself, and smiles when his boy lifts his hips for him. His boy is already opened up, considerably, but George lubes himself up, just in case. And then he presses, and heat consumes his whole body, when he slips right in. Still tight as hell, and when Alexander screams, George goes dizzy with pleasure.

“ _Fuck_ , baby girl.”

Alexander pushes back onto him, and George lets him do the work for a moment, watching how he bounces off of him, grinding onto his dick, snapping his hips slowly, moaning out loud. Alexander sits forward on his forearms, twirling his hips on George’s cock, murmuring,

“Daddy, this dick is _mine_ ,”

“All yours, Princess.” George’s hand is in Alexander’s hair. He yanks on it, earning a squeal from his boy. He rolls his hips and Alexander’s shoulders drop. Both hands are on his hips, holding him tightly, bruising. His strokes are relentless, unabating. He fucks him roughly at an unanticipated speed, smacking his ass when his boy begs for it.

He’s close to his orgasm, but then he boy begs, “Choke me, please, Daddy, chokemechokemechokeme, fuck me into this bed—make me scream,”

And so he flips him over, thrusting in slow, and hard, rolling his hips deeper when they’re chest to chest, and George’s left hand find’s his boy’s throat. He presses onto it, slowly, slamming his hips into Alexander without breaking eye contact. He holds it when he presses harder, and Alexander’s eyes tear up, locked on his, still. He holds it when he sits back and works his boy up into a faster rhythm. He gives him a moment to breathe, but slips two of his fingers into his mouth.

“Yesyesyesyesyes,” his boy is chanting, legs wrapping around George’s frame, one hand on George’s wrist, which is pinning him by his neck to the bed.

Stifled moans and cries and skin smacking skin and the thumping of the bed against the wall fills George’s senses and he squeezes the hand around Alexander’s throat a little bit tighter. Tears are streaking his boy’s bright red cheeks now, crying out to every god in English, and the French, and screaming. And Alexander comes, all over himself, splattering some on George, who sucks kisses into his boy’s collarbones, stroking him through it. He knows he’s bruising his boy up, but that’s how Alexander likes it.

“Come on my face, Daddy, I’ve been bad,” Alexander rasps, and George pulls out when he knows he’s close. Alexander scrambles to the floor, mouth wide open as George steps in front of him, stroking furiously at the sight in front of him. Alexander’s eyes are glistening with tears, and his face is flushed a rosy red, hickeys and bruises are already blooming down his neck. George’s left hand goes to his hair, which he shakes out of his face, bats his lashes, drops his jaw, and—

“ _Shit_.” He sees white when he comes, the booze is treating him well. He can feel Alexander’s eyes on him, still, and he finds himself shooting more than one load. Alexander stays in place, like a good boy, mouth open, fluttering his eyelashes when George’s come streaks across his nose and cheeks. It’s marvelous and artistic sight, George thinks, somewhere in his mind that isn’t occupied by wanting to 1) pass out and sleep for 17 hours, 2) fuck his boy against the nearest flat surface, and 3) come again, as hard as he ever has in his life. The second and third come easily, soon after George finishes on Alexander’s face, smearing it into his cheek with a calloused thumb. Number one will end up becoming their day tomorrow, the following morning.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Anon that was promised GW finishing on Alexander's face?   
> Hit me up on Tumblr @romaas-aesthetics, fam. Drop your love and comments and questions and prompts in my ask!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of the last chapter. It's inherently SFW unless you count two lameos passionately singing Prince NSFW. Oh well.

Alexander sits up, with an awful headache and a tangled bed head. He looks down at his chest, sees he’s in a wrinkled oversized t-shirt, doused in cologne—Washington’s probably. His back is sore and his jaw aches. His head is still swimming with the aftermath of last night's drinks. He'd stopped counting after his fourth glass. He feels rustling beside him, Washington is stirring in the sheets, groaning. 

The curtains are closed, so the room is unnaturally dark for the time the clock claims it to be—2:45pm. He sighs and lays back down, staring up at the ceiling.

This is perfect. This is contentment. This is peace.

 Washington, whom Alexander doesn't think is awake, lazily snuggles his head into the crook in Alexander’s side, mumbling groggily about nothing in particular. He drops a light hand onto his man's head, gently stroking the stubble that he meticulously cuts off, for some reason. He sighs thoughtfully, focusing on Washington's soft breathing and the rhythmic ticking of the Rolex he hadn't bothered to remove before he passed out on the bed last night. He doesn't snore as loud as Alexander apparently does, but he is a deep sleeper. 

Alexander's stomach growls.

He works off Washington’s watch for him, places it on the nightstand as he scans the room. He could cook. Washington would like that, for sure. But that would require moving, and he likes the feeling of Washington’s stubbly cheek pressed into his side, and his buff arms wrapped around Alexander’s waist, holding him close, and their legs tangled under the sheets.

It’s quiet. But not uncomfortably quiet. Not deadly quiet. He’s never liked the quiet before. It’s Washington’s rhythmic breathing, ticking Rolex, and steady presence. It’s always Washington. He looks so HandsomeTM when he sleeps. His face is relaxed, and his lips are slightly parted, but he still seems so dominating with his jawline and cheekbones.

As if right on cue, he’s shifting against Alexander’s side as he rumbles to life, and sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, glancing over his shoulder. He seems to remember the sex from last night, because a lazy smile graces his features when he sees his boy’s mottled bed head. “How’d you sleep?”

“About as best I could after getting that wasted last night. I haven’t drank like that in a while. You hung over?” Washington’s back is pretty hot, Alexander observes. He’s been tanning on this island, since they’ve been here. It looks good on him, and if he could, Alexander would insert six fire emojis behind that last statement.

“Unfortunately. I’ll take something for it, though. Are you?”

“No. I’ve built up a tolerance to alcohol,” Alexander shrugs with a knowing wink. Washington is somewhat amused, but rubs his face again. “I was thinking today could be our lazy day.”

“Our what?”

Of course George fucking _Washington_ doesn’t know what lazy days are. Although, he isn’t as uptight as he used to be. Part of that is due to Alexander’s doing. “A day to relax. Just us. We can order pizza and watch Netflix and we don’t even have to get dressed.” He observes Washington still in his gray striped boxers, raises an eyebrow suggestively. “A few rounds, here and there. We can nap, and drink, and chill, without the world, without the work. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Isn’t that what we do, anyway?” Washington asks skeptically, earning a laugh from his boy.

“No, that’s what _I_ do. _You_ work the whole time, whenever we hang out. Today, you’re going to relax with me. It’s already 3 in the afternoon.” He grins. Picking up the phone, he asks, with intentions of ordering out, “What are you in the mood for?”

“An aspirin,” Washington confesses, slipping off the bed and trudging to the bathroom. “Order whatever you want. I’ll eat what you get.”

Alexander notes this, shrugs, and looks at the number listings for hotel guests. When in Rome, do as the Romans, but pizza doesn’t sound too bad to him. He sets to work on collecting the pillows and blankets and building a fort, thinking that today, he can pretend that he and Washington share a normal life together. Maybe even living together, or just have a domestic relationship. He would hate for his illusion to be shattered by reality the moment their plane touches down in the DC airport, though. He decides to keep his mind from wandering as Washington begins to sing from the bathroom,

“ _Dig if you will, the picture… of you and I engaged in a kiss_ ,” his voice fills the bathroom, and somehow the bedroom, too, and it catches Alexander’s attention, because he’s always heard his man sing, but never Prince. He didn’t know Washington listened to Prince. But he’s almost certain that was his first crush. “ _The sweat of your body covers me; can you my darling—can you picture this?_ ”

Alexander joins in at Washington’s pause, singing with as much soul as he can, “ _Dream if you can, a courtyard—an ocean of violets in bloom-ah!!!!! Animals strike curious poses!!!!!_ ” Washington peaks from the bathroom doorway, eyes wide, face flushed with amusement at Alexander’s brassy, but sexy voice. He motions, with one finger, for Washington to come, while singing, “ _They feel the heat—the heat between me and you!_ ”

And Washington does as instructed, dancing cheesily up to his boy, who laughs as his man sings, with a mask of betrayal, “ _How can you just leave me standing? Alone in the world so cold?_ ” He hugs himself to act this out.

To which Alexander replies, “ _Maybe I’m just too demanding. Maybe I’m just like my father: too bold_.”

“ _Maybe you’re just like my mother_ ,” Washington sings, ironically enough. “ _She’s never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other?_ ”

“ _This is what it sounds like—_ ”

Together, they sing at the top of their lungs, “ _WHEN DOVES CRY!!!!!_ ” and proceed to lamely imitate the song and the beat, dancing around the room. Alexander even attempts to dab, while trying to teach Washington the steps to dabbing, but it doesn’t work out, because Washington doesn’t dance. He does this lame dad shoulder shimmy thing, but Alexander doesn’t seem too bothered as he proceeds to whip and hit the folks to their STILL CONTINUED lame beat making. Washington isn’t even sure the interlude lasts as long as they're making it.

Alexander’s stomach growls again, and he realizes he _still_ hasn’t eaten, and should probably get on that, instead of reenacting his childhood. He decides to order a few large pizzas as Washington hums the rest of the song, starting the shower. He knows well enough by now what his guy prefers from certain restaurants, so he doesn’t have to ask, but after ordering, he gets bored and gets an idea.

He knocks on the bathroom door, to which Washington replies,

“Yes, Alexander?”  

“Can I come in with you?”

A pause, and then, “Sure, love. It’s a tight fit.”

“Isn’t it always?” Alexander mutters, chuckling at his own joke as he slips Washington’s t-shirt off, along with his socks and boxers, and steps into the shower, in front of Washington. “Pizza should be here in 40 minutes.”

“Great. Do you sing in the shower?” Washington asks conversationally, pouring shampoo into the palm of his hand and lathering it up, massaging it into his boy’s scalp.

He closes his eyes for a moment, just to experience the sensation of all of this at once. The scalding hot water hitting his back, Washington raking his fingers over his scalp, inches away from him, their hot, naked bodies pressed together, and the scent of Washington’s body wash is enough to get him high. “Mm, sometimes. Usually, I plan out arguments, though.”

“Ah, so this is the room where it happens,” Washington chuckles. “That’s interesting. When I was a kid, I would give my speeches for presidency.”

“So you were a natural,” Alexander chuckles, tipping his head back to rinse the shampoo out. He likes the way Washington feels against him. “I’m still hungry.”

“That’s nothing new. Pass me the soap.”

“I just can’t wait to eat. What do you want to watch on Netflix? We should watch a _scary_ movie.”

“You get pretty loud when we watch those. Plus, I think we’ve watched all the good ones,” Washington mumbles, continuing to wash up as Alexander does the same. “I like the documentaries.”

“You wanna watch one? I heard _Making of a Murderer_ is pretty good. It’s where they examine the childhoods of serial killers and examine their mental health and stuff. Heard they did an episode on the Zodiac Killer. Ted Cruz was interviewed.”

“Stop with the _memes_ ,” Washington pleads, exasperation evident in his voice, and Alexander howls with laughter.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But hurry up, old man.”

* * *

 

“I think we should do duets more often,” Washington confesses as he dries himself off. “We’d make a good-two-man-boy-band.”

“I think you’re right. We should get married and start it. Travel the world. Perform at Madison Square and do collabs with Beyoncé. It could be called— _Hamwash_.”

“That sounds like hogwash.”

“I can rap, you know.”

“If we got married, your last name wouldn’t be Hamilton, anymore, Alexander.”

“That’s accurate,” Alexander mumbles, pulling on sweatpants over his panties (for Washington later, just in case), and booting up Netflix. The pizza should be coming soon, but for right now, Netflix seems just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That hiatus was so unexpected, in case you haven't read the ending notes to the latest [updated] chapter on [MVNB](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6436093/chapters/14732884)! Nevertheless, I really appreciate the comments and the love from all of you! I will continue to update P/C and I am always open to feedback, new ideas, and prompts. You can drop them in the comments below or in my inbox on Tumblr!  
> Thank you all so much for the unconditional support! I live off of comments and feedback!!!  
> (I'm really sorry if I got your hopes up about the shower sex ;-; )

**Author's Note:**

> you can reach me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)  
> love & comments, questions, prompts & tasteful jokes are appreciated.


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